


Anything For Her

by Baroness_Blixen



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer Arc, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, tw: cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 22:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15715995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baroness_Blixen/pseuds/Baroness_Blixen
Summary: Mulder takes care of Scully after a bad chemo treatment.





	Anything For Her

They think themselves safe after the first chemo, after the second. Dr. Scanlon’s words that she’s going to feel like dying were a constant sword of Damocles over her head, over both their heads, until it wasn’t. When Scully didn’t feel sick after the second round and assured everyone that she did indeed feel fine, the words dissolved into a distant memory, into mere smoke. No fire, not here. Not until chemo number three, that is.

Before the treatment started, Mulder prepared himself as well as he could. Hiding his feelings, throwing himself into work (and sometimes Scully, too) into work; anything to distract himself from what was happening right in front of his eyes. All these weeks in and he is still hiding his feelings, watching Scully out of the corner of his eye. Scully, after all, doesn’t want him to hover. From time to time he is convinced she doesn’t want him to care at all. If he’s honest, late at night when he’s missing her, when wanting to see and touch her manifests into physical pain spreading through his veins like a phantom cancer, he wishes he didn’t care either. Most of all he wishes she’d never met him. Never met him, never joined him. Just never. But there is no going back, no changing the past. They’re doomed, both of them.

The chemo is on Fridays. Scully chose that day so she can rest over the weekend. She leaves early, unable to just stay away all day. Mulder contemplates wishing her good luck, but doesn’t; the sentiment too trite. Instead he helps her into her coat and startles when he realizes how tiny she is, how fragile. His hand against her back is comically large and he draws it away.

“See you on Monday,” he mumbles, his voice a vulnerable mess. Scully, always stronger than he could ever be, nods and manages a smile before she leaves him alone in their office.

It’s quiet there without her, feels like a grave. Mulder spends his day checking his watch, reiterating what Scully is going through. He knows the procedure. At 4 pm he leaves, knowing it’s about the same time they’re taking Scully home. Both he and her mother offered to drop her off and take her home after. Her only answer then a ‘don’t be silly’. They both kept quiet, biting their lips. So Scully takes a taxi, every time.

The call comes at 8 pm. Mulder is half-heartedly chewing on a cold piece of pizza that he found in the fridge when the phone rings.

“Mulder,” he answers and there is silence for a few seconds; they stretch on so that he almost hangs up again.

“It’s me,” Scully says then, not sounding like herself at all.

“Oh hey,” Mulder stumbles over his greeting. He swallows and sits upright on his couch, as if that would make a difference. He turns down the volume of the TV. “How – how are you feeling?” There’s more silence, graver than before. Mulder expects the worst, even if he can’t say what that would be right this moment. His throat is dry and he swallows again.

“Can you… I don’t think I should be alone tonight.” Even now she can’t ask him. But Mulder, after all this time, can’t blame her. He turns off the TV, searches for his shoes.

“I’ll be right there, Scully.”

He’s been preparing himself, or trying to do so, but when Scully opens the door he has to face the fact that he is no prepared for any of this. Her robe hand hangs off her carelessly, her skinny frame disappearing in the fluffy fabric. She leans heavily against the door, barely able to hold herself up; her face shows shadows of exhaustion and pain. Mulder doesn’t say a word; he’s not even sure he could say anything. He puts his arms around her and she lets go, gives in. She is way too light in his arms, her weight barely there. In tiny steps they make it over to the couch where they slump down together, Scully against him. She’s cool to his touch, yet sweaty. Her eyes are ablaze, her skin ashen. Mulder has never seen her like this and he wants to look away almost. He wants to see Scully the way he knows her, the way he’s always seen there. He can’t look away, he never could. So he reaches out to tug a strand of hair behind her ear. The long lock of fiery red hair remains between his fingers and he stares at it, tries to make it disappear before Scully sees it.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes as if any of this was her fault. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.” Like what, he doesn’t dare to ask. She’s human. She’s sick. She’s still his Scully, though.

“What can I do for you?” Mulder asks her.

“Just be here,” she replies with a sigh. “Be here and…” But she doesn’t finish; she doesn’t have to continue her sentence. Be here and make sure I don’t die are the words she doesn’t utter, the words Mulder hears anyway.

Mulder doesn’t sleep. He urges Scully to go to bed several times (each time they return from the bathroom after she’s been sick). Each time she says no. At 1.30 am with her mind broken, everything about her empty, she lets Mulder carry her to the bed, crying soft, desperate tears he pretends not to see or feel. He stays with her and puts another blanket over her when she shivers in her sleep. Not once does he take his eyes off of her.

“Good morning,” he greets her with a smile he can’t hide shortly past 9 am. She’s slept for seven hours straight without being sick. If that’s not good, then what is? Scully blinks at him and her complexion is a bit rosier, a little more like herself. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“You sure?” She nods, but doesn’t attempt to get up. It takes her a moment to realize where she is; Mulder sees the thought process in her eyes. She blushes briefly when she puts the pieces together. “You always tell me it’s not good for the back to sleep on the couch,” he explains, blushing himself.

“Thank you, Mulder,” she says, her voice soft and steady. They don’t talk about the night before or any of it.

Throughout the day Mulder watches her like a hawk. Scully doesn’t ask him to leave and he makes no move to do so either. They spend the day on the couch like a young couple in love, cuddling and watching terrible movies together. Scully drifts in and out of consciousness. When she’s awake Mulder makes sure she drinks enough fluids and eats some broth. It’s all she dares to try. He brews tea every two hours, knowing it needs to cool. Earlier Scully drank hot tea and it made her sick. The only time so far this Saturday. In the evening Mulder is hopeful that it’s over. Scully has been awake for almost two hours and she’s chuckling at the movie they’re watching.

“Hmmm,” she says, her eyes glued to the screen.

“Hm? You need anything?”

“That bread,” she points at the screen where a family of three is sharing a big loaf of bread, “I really wish I could have some of that warm, tasty bread.” She licks her dry, cracked lips and moves her mouth as if she were chewing.

Five minutes later she is fast asleep and breathing deeply against his chest, where a plan is brewing. Mulder maneuvers Scully into a laying position and makes sure she doesn’t wake up. There is no bread in her kitchen. He considers making it from scratch, but how would he even start? Mulder doesn’t think long; there’s one thing to do, only one person to call.

“Hello Mrs. Scully,” he says into the phone, trying not to sound like a young boy.

“Fox?” Mrs. Scully is as surprised as she is concerned when she hears his voice. “Is it Dana? Is she not feeling well?” He thinks of last night. The phone call that brought him here. Scully being sick again and again. But she called him, not her mother. This is not his story to tell.

“She’s fine,” he lies, “but she’s been craving bread and since she hasn’t been eating well, I thought…” On the other end of the line Mrs. Scully chuckles.

“That’s my baby girl,” she sighs, “her grandmother used to bake bread for her when she was sick. It’s her comfort food.”

“Can you tell me how to make it?” Mulder asks, afraid it’s some complicated thing he won’t ever understand.

“Of course, Fox. Of course.”

Scully has everything he needs for making the bread from scratch and Mulder follows the recipe to the letter. It has to be just right. An hour later the tiny loaf of bread is in the oven, baking and growing.

“Mulder?” Scully’s voice comes from the living room and he races back to her side. He falls to his knees right in front of the couch.

“You okay?” He touches her cheeks and frames her face. To his greatest delight Scully rolls her eyes and smiles at him.

“I feel fine, really, but… am I crazy or do I smell my grandmother Scully’s magic bread?” Any notion of joking with her, of telling her she’s imaging things flies out the moment he looks at her. Her face is so open and her eyes more hopeful than he’s ever seen them. In this moment she is young, carefree; her only concern that she’ll get a slice of warm bread. In this very moment she doesn’t look sick. She’s just herself. She’s Scully, living and fighting.

“It is,” Mulder admits, unable to keep her guessing any longer. “I asked your mother for the recipe.

"Oh Mulder.” Scully kisses his cheek; she smells like sleep and toothpaste, like steel and the faint odor of hospital gowns, of sweet and sour vomit. But Mulder doesn’t care and just grins at her.

They sit in front of the oven like a bunch of school children and watch the bread grow, grow and grow. They chatter and laugh; Scully talks about her grandmother and how she raised six children by herself. How she always wanted to be as badass as grandmother Scully. Before Mulder can assure her that she is the most badass person he has ever known, the kitchen timer dings.

“I’m so excited,” Scully giggles.

“Me too,” Mulder says but watches her. He doesn’t care for the bread, for the taste of it. All he cares about is her. The bread shimmers golden as Mulder takes it out. As he cuts into the steaming load, a delicious, warm and sweet scent fills the small kitchen. Scully, her eyes closed, takes a deep breath.

“Here,” Mulder offers her a small piece and Scully takes it from him. Her eyes are on him as she bites into it. Mulder is certain he can taste it from just watching her.

“Try it,” Scully whispers and offers him the other half. “You did it perfectly. My grandmother would be so proud.” He chews carefully, the texture heavenly soft.

“I did it for you, Scully.” He would do anything for her. Any little thing. Bake bread or find a cure to save her. He’ll do it. There’s no other choice.

“Let’s take it to the living room.” They cut off a large chunk of bread and settle back on the couch. They feed each other small bits, not saying a single word.

“I’m full,” Scully says too soon and Mulder leaves the rest of the bread on the coffee table in case she changes her mind. Exhaustion catches up with him and he falls asleep holding Scully in his arms.

He remembers the moment, the bread and her face, and cherishes it hours later when Scully wakes up with a haunted look on her face. They barely make it to the bathroom this time; this wave of nausea hitting them both out of nowhere, surprising them. Mulder strokes her clammy back as she leans over the porcelain, her body unable to keep anything it, to accept nourishment.

Mulder whispers a constant string of 'I’m sorry’ and 'you’ll be fine’ and it falls into a canon with Scully’s own words of apology and shame. He touches her neck where a strand of hair has come undone. He picks it up and marvels how soft it is. For the first time he notices the small patches of baldness on her head. Tears sting in his eyes. He takes a shaky breath before he kisses her neck, right where her pale scar winks at him.

“You’ll be all right, Scully. I promise you. I promise you that,” he whispers with determination.


End file.
